


I'm Always Good, But I've Been Better Lately

by bibliomaniac



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Frottage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, originally posted on twitter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:47:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22295056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliomaniac/pseuds/bibliomaniac
Summary: Hank has had sex a few times, but he's never understood the appeal. Connor would very much like to change this.(originally a thread on twitter, just transferring it over)
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 8
Kudos: 139





	I'm Always Good, But I've Been Better Lately

**Author's Note:**

> title is from the song 'never been better' by olly murs; original thread can be found [here](https://twitter.com/boringbibs/status/1099471811102818309)
> 
> cws for this: brief mention of alcohol abuse and past trauma, alcohol use

Hank first meets Connor at one of those office ‘teambuilding exercises’ he hates that are basically just an excuse to get drunk. His supervisor had said, though—okay, you're new, you're great at your job, but I just feel like nobody here knows you, huh? Let us get to know you!

A friendly boss. Christ.

But he needs this job. Layoffs combined with his brief rash of bad performance after the divorce and Cole means he lost the one he had been at for years, and it was hard enough finding someplace to take him on with that kind of record. So he says yes.

They're at some bar with shitty beer and overly modern decor. Makes Hank feel even more out of place than he already does among his younger colleagues. He's staring at the shit on the walls, reprints of posters and pictures of old concerts that nobody else here could've gone to. It’s why he misses the footsteps coming up to their pushed-together tables until the owner of the steps talks, voice low and a bit husky. "And you? Can I get you anything else, sir?"

There's a weird emphasis on the word 'sir', and he almost thinks this guy might be making fun of him. That is, until he looks up and sees him and his expression. Attractive guy, young-looking in a way that makes it hard to guess his age, curly hair and eyeliner and, most pertinently, the most obvious set of bedroom eyes he's ever seen on a man. Jeeeesus. He's wondering whether this is the norm to upsell on liquor these days and counting freckles so hard that he doesn't realize he's staring. Guy does, though, from the look of him, because his lips curl up at the corners and then he _licks_ them.

Fucking hell. If he's upselling, it works, because Hank very suddenly is too sober to deal with being flirted with by some attractive guy who, let's be real here, no way gives a rat's ass about anything other than his wallet. "Whiskey," he says, and looks back at the walls.

"What kind? Do you like it smooth?" He hears a choked-off laugh from next to him, but doesn't look back up. "Or rough?"  
  
"I like it whatever way gets me whiskey," he says. Rude, maybe, but he doesn't give a shit right now.  
  
"All right, all right," says the guy, laughing a bit. "I'll see if I can surprise you." He walks away.  
  
"Damn," says a coworker, whistling. "Didn't know you had game."  
  
"I don't," grumbles Hank. "He's looking for tips."  
  
"I _bet_ he is," says some other guy, and then they're all laughing and high fiving, and then they move on. The drinks are delivered by somebody else, not that Hank's keeping track, not that he looks at the guy grinning at some girl behind the bar, not that he's looking long enough for the guy to catch him and smile all slow and wink.  
  
Or, well, if he does, it doesn't matter. On his way out the door, not as drunk as he'd like but planning on getting drunker at home, he feels somebody jostle against him in a way that is way too familiar to his younger days.

Sure enough, he catches them by the wrist of the hand coming out of his jacket pocket. "You looking for something in my pocket?" he growls, tugging on the wrist, but his grip falters when he sees who he's caught. It's the employee from earlier, eyes round now, but same big, slow smile coming back to his face.  
  
"Not in your pocket," he says. He opens his hand to show a napkin and the number written on it. "You didn't stay long enough for me to give you this."   
  
Hank has no idea what he looks like right now. It's not like this shit happens to him. But however he looks, it makes the guy grin wider. He slides his wrist through Hank's loose grip to go back to his pocket, tuck the napkin inside, and pat it closed. "There we go. Unless you'd rather talk now?" His head is tilted, smile almost predatory, and it's not just the whiskey that has Hank stumbling back and going red.

"I'm—good," he ekes out, and tells himself he's not running away just 'cause he's powerwalking towards his car. His coworkers are already in theirs; he can only hope they're not watching. He doesn't want to deal with them and he sure as fuck doesn't know how to deal with _that_.

Next morning, he wakes up late and hungover and nearly freaks out until he realizes it's a Saturday. He stares at the napkin for a bit too long trying to figure out what it's doing next to his phone until realizing.

It'd be rude to just...not say anything, right? He types in the number with shaky hands, which he guesses is what happens when you're an old fuck who didn't have dinner or breakfast or lunch except for some bad beer and surprisingly good whiskey, and sends a perfunctory text. "I don't really do that sort of thing. Sorry."

“well don't knock it until you've tried it ;P" comes the response a few minutes later, and, “also who is this"  
  
The confidence it must take to respond that way when you don't know who's talking to you, Jesus Christ. This guy is something. "Hank. From the bar yesterday."

“ohhh" is waiting for him on his phone after he's stumbled back from the bathroom. “right, I definitely remember you c; that's a pity, then. out of curiosity what sort of thing don't you do, hank? younger guys? guys in general?"  
  
Oh my God, Hank thinks, headache worsening.

"I don't...any of it. I am sure you're a," he searches for a good word while he changes his shirt and boxers and pulls on some sweatpants. "Great guy. But I don't date, is what I meant."

He doesn't think dating is what the guy—Connor, according to the napkin—meant either. But, well, even if Connor isn't gonna bother, he at least can attempt tact.  
  
“oh my god you're precious can I keep you" responds Connor with, astonishingly, even less tact than he's exhibited up to this point.  
  
"I don't do human trafficking either," he says, feeling very pissy. Which, in fairness, is in part the patronization and in part the whole no-food-no-coffee-hangover thing again.  
  
“okay, okay, sorry. i'll tone it down. you don't have to say yes, not like we know each other, but. do you do talking at least?"  
  
He stares suspiciously at his phone. "What kind of talking."  
  
“like this. texting. you seem interesting and i wouldn't mind getting to know you."  
  
He stares even more suspiciously at his phone. "In the non-Biblical sense?"  
  
“oh my god hahahaha. yes. no bibles involved. as platonic as you want, promise."

He notices that Connor puts it as platonic as he _wants_. Still keeping his options open, huh. God this guy is shameless.  
  
But hey, not like Hank has anyone else to talk to, and he could be doing worse things. Getting this drunk every night. Talking to his coworkers. (Ew.)  
  
"Sure."

So he keeps talking to Connor. Turns out he grows on you, even if he's a pathologically flirty motherfucker who uses way too many fucking winky faces. Underneath that is a smart and surprisingly kind man with a sharp wit and a good sense of humor. He listens to Hank, even when Hank is just complaining about his dumbass coworkers, even when Hank is opening up about his past, about what he's lost. He calls Hank on the phone, even though he hates phones, when Hank goes silent. He stays on the line while he cries. It's just typical, isn't it, that Hank's closest relationship ends up being with some guy who flirted with him once at a bar and that he's been texting but hasn't seen since.  
  
He wants to, though.  
  
It surprises him—scares him—how much he wants to.

So when Connor asks him over to his place—just for a monthly movie night he does with his closest friends, he assures Hank, they just pick old shitty movies and rag on them and it's good fun and good stress relief—he goes without even thinking too hard about it.

But he's definitely thinking now, stood outside Connor's door with a couple of bags of chips in the reusable bag hanging loosely at his side. God, this was a bad idea. Right? Has to be. Showing up for something with all of Connor's friends—his same-age, thirty-something friends. And then him, with his two bags of fucking doritos and his 53-year-old fucking self. If leaving didn't mean not seeing Connor, he'd be gone.  
  
(You are gone, whispers something he's been ignoring, on him. He punts it to the back of his brain with all his other dumbshit thoughts.)

He rings the doorbell, but doesn't have to wait long for an exasperated call of, “Josh, it's open—" and then footsteps thundering towards the door. It's thrown open and there's Connor, exasperated look shifting to a beam. "Hank," he breathes, and then throws his arms around him in an unexpected hug.

Unexpected, but not unwelcome. Connor squeezes him tight, rocking them back and forth on the balls of his toes, head ducked into his shoulder. Hank brings up his hands too, to press on his back. When he steps back he's still beaming, but there's some pink to his cheeks. "Hank! I wasn't, uh—you're early."  
  
“Yeah, that used to be polite," Hank quips, and can't help but smile a bit when Connor laughs breathlessly, ducking his head and shaking it.  
  
“Oh, jeez, sorry. Come in, come in. You brought chips? Thanks, you can put those on the counter."

He follows Hank, behind him, a bit too close. It's almost like he doesn't want to be too far away. Hank also ignores the warmth that lights in his chest. Connor is chattering all the while—pointing out the different things he already has set out, Simon will be bringing cookies, he always does, uses us as guinea pigs for new recipes even though he has an entire-ass boyfriend for that, but it's not like we're complaining—it's nothing of substance, but the sound of it still is comforting, wrapping around Hank like they're still hugging. Which they're not.

(He wishes they were.)  
  
(That thought is also punted to the back. Jesus. He's only five minutes into this thing.)  
  
Other friends arrive one by one—Simon, bearing the aforementioned tray of cookies, and his entire-ass boyfriend Markus, both of whom introduce themselves politely. Josh, who knocks at the door; Simon, Markus, and Connor yell out in unison that he can just come in already, it's not locked, come on Josh. Kara and her boyfriend Luther, apologizing for being late. North, who Hank recognizes with a note of surprise is the woman from the bar. She doesn't introduce herself at first, just stares at him and then grins viciously. “Oh."  
  
“Shut up, North," Connor mumbles, going pink again, and Hank can't help but wonder what kind of conversations they've had—about him? Maybe?—that explain that interaction.

They all start to settle, and Connor insists Hank sit next to him on the couch. “Because you're so old," he tells him solemnly, patting his shoulder, and Hank barks out a laugh and a 'fuck you'. They start the movie, and maybe Hank does still feel out of place at first, sure. But there's a homey atmosphere to the whole thing that he hasn't felt in a long while: the kind of thing you feel around people who know each other well but aren't too fussy about letting people in.

Kara mouths along dramatically to the whole movie and stands up at the climax to monologue. They throw pillows at her and boo because she's blocking the screen. Hank shrugs and says she's better than the actor was, anyway. "THANK you," she says, pointing at him, even as she sits back down to lean against Luther, while North blows a raspberry at his direction.

“Sellout," she calls, “The point is the actor isn't good, it's the principle—"  
  
“When the hell did principles come into this?" Josh retorts, flicking a popcorn kernel at her head. Simon asks them to quiet down, and they spend the rest of the movie throwing popcorn at each other.

So that's nice, that they don't seem to have any worries about pulling their punches just because he's here, that they can let him sit in on this. Feel this.  
  
But, if he's being honest, what's even nicer is feeling Connor next to him. What's nicer is hearing his low laugh close to his ears, feeling the brush of his hands against his chest as he gestures, the weight of his head as he lays it on Hank's shoulder—light, at first, hesitant like he doesn't know if it's allowed, then bolder. Hank has to remind himself to keep breathing. He's not sure the reminder works, honestly.  
  
After the movie ends, they all stretch and then get up to eat a few more snacks and start cleaning up. Hank isn't sure why he lingers. Except that's a complete fucking lie, isn't it. He stays, taking way too long to pick up popcorn kernels, because he wants more of this.  
  
More of Connor.  
  
God, this was a bad idea after all, wasn't it. He's been trying to convince himself that's not true for weeks. Longer, even. And all it took was one night to unravel that. Eventually, everybody's left except for Hank, quietly washing dishes at the sink, wordless like if he says something Connor will notice he's here and make him leave. He's over near the tv still, vacuuming and righting the pillows from the couch. Hank can see him stealing glances. He sets down the last plate in Connor's drying rack and dries off his hands, just as quiet, and then just stands there a few moments.

There's nothing else he can think of that would give him an excuse to stay. Which means he should go.  
  
But he doesn't. There are quiet footsteps behind him, and he can't bring himself to turn to look. Connor has to know he should be leaving too. Even if they're friends, it's not like Hank doesn't have to leave sometime. He'll tell him that.  
  
But he doesn't, either. Tentative arms wrap around him. They're just above the curve of his belly, light and just as hesitant as earlier, but then Connor's grip firms, and Hank can feel his head drop onto his back between his shoulder blades, his breath warm against his shirt.  
  
"Hank," he says.  
  
"Connor," Hank says, uncertain, wanting. Connor takes a deep breath, then another.

"I know at the beginning I said this would be as platonic as you wanted. And I meant it, but." Another deep breath, an exhale, almost a sigh, almost a sob. “What do I do if I don't want it to be platonic anymore? What do I do with that?"

Hank's heart stutters and then resumes beating so hard he can hear it in his ears, warmth roaring in his chest and on his back where Connor is pressed against him, and—down. Further down. Which is also unexpected. But then, he hasn't expected anything about this, has he.

“You," he begins, and his voice comes out on a croak, like he hasn't spoken in years. It almost feels like he hadn't until meeting Connor. “You could ask me how platonic I want it to be."  
  
Connor stills behind him, then separates and turns Hank around with surprising strength. Hank can't look at him, looks to the side, but he knows Connor is looking at him, staring intensely. "...So?"  
  
Maybe there's some speech he could give here, something about how Connor's opened his eyes again, made him feel again. But what he actually says is just, “Less?"

“Oh, thank fuck," he hears Connor growl, and looks down at him with wide eyes, and Connor is surging up to kiss him like he's never been kissed before. He can barely keep up with it, with this desperate, barely-contained passion, but he does his best. And that seems to be enough for Connor, who moans into his mouth and presses him back against the sink, hips up against him in a way that's gonna cause problems pretty soon, because maybe it's just some of that passion bleeding through or maybe Hank is feeling it himself, but...either way, Connor is going to start feeling something else entirely if he doesn't take a step back.  
  
Connor rips away from his mouth to press messy kisses to his cheekbone, jaw, neck, and Hank has no idea how this feels so good, but—"Connor," he tries.

Connor stops, looking like it physically pains him to do so. "Hank? You—is this okay?"  
  
“It's fine, it's—it's great, uh," he clears his throat. “You're...good. Very good. Uh. Too...much? Maybe? Too good? Shit, that sounds dumb."  
  
Dumb or not, Connor starts smiling. It's not the smile from when he saw Hank at the door, or from when Hank agreed to sit next to him on the couch. It's that one from the night at the bar, the same hooded eyes, the same almost predatory curl of lips. Oh, Jesus. If that was unfairly hot back then, now it's worse. “Well, thank you," Connor purrs. “Is there a problem?"  
  
“Just," Hank says, clearing his throat again unnecessarily, face gone past pink to red. "I don't think I like...sex."  
  
Connor blinks several times, confused, but steps back. “Oh. I mean...that's fine, Hank. You know this isn't—I'm not just trying for—obviously I'm attracted to you, I have been since the moment I saw you—"  
  
Hank makes a strangled noise at the back of his throat.  
  
“But this is—I like you. A lot. I guess I should have led with that. And...if being with you—if you want to be with me—if that means not having sex, that's okay. You're more important, all right? You're most important."  
  
“Thanks," Hank says, like a dumbass. “And, uh. Same. I like you a lot and I want to be with you. But just. Like...sex isn't...it's just kind of bad?"  
  
Connor's fond smile goes a bit quizzical. “How so?"  
  
“You just...I don't know..." he shrugs helplessly. “Like, you just...put it........in...."  
  
“Uh-huh," Connor says slowly.  
  
“And then I guess it's supposed to feel good, but—"

"Hank," Connor says, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry for interrupting, but—I just want to make sure I'm clear on this. You've, um. You've had sex?"  
  
"I had a kid."  
  
“Okay. So at least once."  
  
Hank shrugs. This is so fucking stupid. The kissing was more fun. “Like...five."

“Five times." Connor's eyebrows go high, and he blows out air. “Okay. And it didn't feel good any of these times?"  
  
Hank shrugs again, wrapping an arm around himself. "I mean, it was pretty fast. I think they just wanted to be done."  
  
“Um. Hm. Okay. Uh. One last question. Or...two, actually. First, are you opposed to having sex generally, or just because you think it's—I don't know, boring?"  
  
Hank squints at him. "I guess the second one?"  
  
“All right. And second. ...did it feel good just now?"

What the fuck is this night, frankly. He's not going to say 'yeah, I asked you to stop because I was getting a boner, you strange sexy man.' He nods.  
  
“All right." Connor takes a hesitant step back closer to him. “Like I said, if we never have sex, that's fine. But...if what's stopping you is it's never felt good, and you were willing to let me try—we could stop anytime—then." A hint of that predatory smile from earlier is back as he breathes, “Baby, I know I could make you feel _amazing_."  
  
A sudden, dizzying jolt of heat leaves Hank reeling. He almost thinks the small keen is from Connor, and it kind of floors him when he realizes that was him.  
  
Connor steps closer again until they're almost touching, and picks up his hand to press a kiss to it. “No pressure. I promise. But if you want to try it out, well. I'm here."

It'd be nice if Hank could remember how to fucking talk. It's not like he's ever been smooth, but Jesus, this is embarrassing.  
  
“Sure," he wheezes.  
  
Connor's answering smile is gentle, and when he kisses him again, it's gentle too. It almost feels strange in context. Except not really, because it's still Connor, and with Connor somehow things manage to end up feeling right.  
  
Connor's kisses go from gentle to deeper again, and this time it's Hank who tentatively licks at the seam of Connor's lips, Connor who moans and presses closer. One of Connor's hands goes to the nape of Hank's neck, tangles a bit into the hair there, and the other goes slowly to his hip, caressing the curve of it, loving but so slow he could stop it if he wanted.  
  
But oh, God, he doesn't want to. Not at all, not anymore. When Connor's grip on his hip grows stronger and he rolls his own hips up against Hank's, cautious at first but then in a slow, rolling rhythm, Hank has to break from Connor to put his head on Connor's shoulder, to pant hotly against his skin, grasping at his shirt uselessly. "Hank," Connor says, not sounding unaffected himself, “Would you be all right with this going to the bedroom?"  
  
“All right is the biggest fucking understatement of the year at this point," Hank says against Connor's neck, and drinks in Connor's soft laugh.

Connor takes his hand and leads him to his bedroom, and when they're inside, he backs Hank up against the bed until Hank has to sit down, looking up at Connor, heart hammering in his chest.  
  
“God, look at you," Connor says, eyes raking over him hungrily.

"I'd prefer not to," Hank says. It's supposed to be a joke, but it falls flat, probably because it's an honest sentiment.  
  
Connor's eyes narrow before softening again. He says, faux-haughty with a sniff, “Well, you're allowed to be wrong if you want."

Hank barks out an incredulous laugh. “Hey!"  
  
Connor grins, and he steps forward, forward again, until he's standing towering over him, smiling down. "I mean, I'm right. Like I said, from the moment I first saw you—God." He smooths his hands over Hank's arms. “Did you never wonder why your server changed midway through?"  
  
Hank's eyebrows furrow. “Uh, not really?"  
  
“Bribed him." Connor straddles him, hands moving down to Hank's waist, hips, waiting teasingly just at the edges of his thighs. "I had to talk to you. Everything about you was just..." Connor inhales, then pulls him into a filthy kiss, hips thrusting forward in a movement that seems a lot less planned than the rest of this. “Gorgeous, fuck. _perfect_."  
  
Hank's breath goes shuddery. He doesn't know why that gets to him. Connor takes that in shrewdly, then says, “Can I take off your shirt?"  
  
“Uhh," Hank says, both because his mind's a bit scrambled right now and because...uh.   
  
"I'll take off mine," Connor offers eagerly, and strips with a practiced ease that feels almost unfair. When Connor asks about the shirt again, Hank is—reasonably, he thinks—a bit distracted. Jesus, look at all that. Everything. His chest is spotted with freckles here and there, but the rest of it is just miles of pale smooth skin. And his nipples are pierced. Because of course. Of course whatever weird perverted fuck made Connor also just—decided they wanted Hank to die. Right now. Just, right here, gone.  
  
As if in a trance, he reaches up to one to tug at it. Connor moans and arches his back, and Hank promptly re-dies. Cool. “Babe, if you keep that up this night might go a different direction real fast," Connor breathes, eyes molten, and Hank's throat dries up under his gaze. “So let's keep on track. Can I take your shirt off?"  
  
“Go for it," Hank, champion wordsmith, croaks.

Connor's smile goes wicked. “Thank you."

He pulls Hank's t-shirt off—not one of the ratty ones, but it's far from sexy, either—and throws it dismissively on the ground, eyes and then hands roaming over him. “God, Hank." His tone is reverent, almost worshipful.

His thumbs go almost absentmindedly to Hank's nipples, which—let's be clear here, he hadn't known those were a thing. Like, for guys, but especially for him. But fuck are they a thing, because he gasps and then he's arching forward too, pushing his chest into Connor's hands. “Beautiful," Connor murmurs distractedly, and then he puts his mouth on them and moves his hands to grope at Hank's belly, and Hank can't even be pissed because Jesus Holy Mother Of Fuckers. This is—yes. This is definitely a thing. A thing that should keep happening, in fact.

One of his hands shoots to the back of Connor's head to keep him right where he's at, and Connor groans against his skin. Hank's down to maybe negative fifty million brain cells right now but he does think—okay, no shirt was good, maybe no pants also good? He moves to unbuckle his belt and fumbles that off, unzips his pants and kinda tries to get those out of the way, which would be easier if Connor weren't sitting on his lap and sucking his negative brain cells out through his chest. But Connor seems to realize what's happening. And then he detaches (bad) to pull off Hank's pants (good) and then to take off his own pants (great!) He takes his briefs off too, and then Hank has to spend some time ogling him, obviously.  
  
“You too?" Connor asks.  
  
“Mm," says Hank, a concerted effort he thinks, and strips.

Connor gasps when his boxers are thrown on the floor, hands immediately going to his thighs like it's unconscionable he's not touching him somewhere. “Five?" he demands in a strangled voice. "FIVE? Hank, I'm pretty sure that's a federal crime."  
  
“What?"  
  
“What a waste." He tsks. But then that predatory grin is back, and he's pushing Hank back onto the bed, up towards the pillows. “Well. More for me."  
  
"I don't think that's how that works," Hank says dazedly, but he shuts up real fast when Connor gets his mouth on his dick.

Well, kind of, because he gasps and then he moans and then he probably says something like “Oh my god" and “Fuck" and “Holy fuck, Connor". Maybe variations on that; who gives a shit. Connor's doing something else, too, reaching behind his pillow, but still who gives a shit.

He realizes what's going on only when Connor waves the bottle of clear stuff in front of his head. Or, specifically, when he's together enough to read it. “Lubricant?" Connor pops off to look at him, lips red and puffy and—God, they could have been doing this this whole time, huh? Past Hank is an idiot, noted. “Is that okay?"  
  
Hank pauses, thinking. “For. Me? Like. For. You—in me?"  
  
Connor nods, still waiting, but massaging at Hank's thigh. It's not like Hank doesn't know this can theoretically happen, but it's not something he's ever thought about happening to him in particular. But, well. He hadn't—really thought about anything that's happened thus far happening to him. And Connor obviously knows what he's doing. “Yeah, okay." Hank looks speculatively down. “What do I...do?"  
  
Connor's eyes go even darker. “Oh, baby, you don't have to do anything. Just let me make you feel good." He presses a kiss to Hank's thigh. “Okay? And tell me if anything doesn't feel good, or you want to stop."

“Sure," Hank says uncertainly. Connor puts his mouth back on Hank's dick, eyelids fluttering a little bit in pleasure, and then he squirts some of the lube from the bottle onto his fingers and rubs it around between them before going to smear some on Hank's ass. Which is weird, he's not gonna lie, and only weirder when Connor starts circling with the pad of his index finger over, uh. You know. (What even is the sexy word for that part? He doesn't usually associate it with sexy.)

But Connor at least looks like he thinks it's sexy. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyelashes are still doing that fluttering thing, but when he opens his eyes they're almost entirely swallowed up by his pupil. So—yeah, maybe the thing is actually just that Connor is sexy. He bobs down just as his finger breaches past. Weird. DEFINITELY weird. But Connor is moving slow, at least trying to not make it hurt or anything he guesses, and then with a look of concentration, he presses in further and wiggles his index finger around, until—  
  
So. Okay. The thing is. Hank knows, technically, what an orgasm feels like. He's had some. They were kind of underwhelming, but he came, and all. So like. He knows what they feels like. But the thing is he hasn't had one in a long time, and the other thing is, all of this has felt so much better than...than anything, really, anything he's ever done or tried or felt. The electricity building in his abdomen, all of his muscles tensing and releasing, everything is just so far beyond. And whatever it is Connor did, whatever he poked at and kept poking at, he didn't know that.

The point is, one moment everything is building and so good and then it's oh my god holy fucking shit this feels amazing and then, uh, Connor is making a choking noise and then swallowing around his dick because—yeah. The point is apparently _that's_ what orgasms feel like now. Oops.  
  
“Oh my god," he says, worried and also kind of embarrassed and also kind of still really out of it because he still feels great, awesome, wonderful, "I—oh my god, Connor, I didn't know—fuck, I'm so sorry, are you all right?"  
  
Connor doesn't exactly respond. His eyes have gone glassy, and he's still got Hank's dick in his mouth, but. He lets it fall with a final lick and then he's scrambling up to kiss Hank (not as weird as he'd have thought!) and rutting frantically against his belly. “Fuck, fuck, Hank," he's moaning. "Hank, you're so—fuck, you're so hot, coming just like that, right down my throat—so hot, so perfect, god, you're beautiful—"  
  
Hank doesn't know what's going on or what provoked this exactly, or why Connor saying that shit is making his dick twitch again. But also, who gives a fuck, because Connor looks fucking amazing chasing his pleasure against Hank's belly, moaning, tears beading at the corners of his eyes, head thrown back. And it's because of _Hank_. If Hank could—if this were because Connor were inside—

God, he thinks dazedly. I want him to fuck me.  
  
Connor's moans are growing higher in pitch, and before long he's stilling, mouth open and soundless as he spills over the thatch of hair below Hank's belly button. He collapses against Hank before long, mouthing at his clavicle.

"Connor," Hank says, determined. And also still distracted. That's never stopped being a thing. “You should fuck me."  
  
Connor chuckles against him, propping up on an elbow to gaze at him, eyes twinkling. “Now?"  
  
“No, like—next time. I want you to."

Connor's eyes go lidded, and he licks his lips. “You _sure_ not now?"  
  
Hank glances thoughtfully at his dick. "I mean...do you think..."  
  
"I'm joking." Connor kisses him, running his hands through his hair, and parts, smiling softly. “Next time. For now...maybe we can just cuddle, and I can be amazed at how lucky I am." Another kiss, to his cheek. “And we can sleep, because it's late and I'm tired, and then in the morning..." He grins and winks. “Well. We'll see."  
  
“Sounds good," Hank murmurs, and kisses Connor because he can.

“So," Connor says a few moments later, snuggled up with his head laid against Hank's chest. “Do you still think sex is bad?"  
  
“Is this what it sounds like when people beg for compliments?" Hank asks.  
  
“It's what it sounds like when I do," Connor says, batting his eyelashes.

Hank snorts, dropping a kiss on Connor's head and holding him tighter. “At least you admit it. I...do not still think that."  
  
“Excellent," Connor says cheerily, nuzzling in closer. “Because I'd like to have lots of it. With you, I mean."  
  
"I think we can arrange that."

It'll end up a funny story to tell, later down the line—Hank saying, very carefully, that he met his husband at a bar, and Connor cheerfully correcting, "I hit on him and then we texted until I hit it, if you know what I—" and Hank squawking and throwing a hand over his mouth. He thinks he just does it to rile him up, honestly. As outgoing as Connor is about sex, he's actually pretty possessive of their sex life. When he boasts about increasing Hank's percentage of 'times' astronomically, it's just when they're at home and Hank can kiss him silly.

But regardless, he loves the way Connor laughs when he breaks free of Hank's grip, grinning the way he only does for Hank, eyes twinkling and looking so damn happy, so it's not like he'd ever stop him saying it. He's mostly just glad to have him, and to love him. He's real damn lucky, he figures, and Connor always tells him he's just as lucky.  
  
So that's the best part, really.  
  
(But also, yeah, the sex is fucking amazing.)

**Author's Note:**

> i only briefly formatted this--the original was all in lowercase and such--so if there are any errors sorry (but not sorry enough 2 change them rn lol)
> 
> thank you for reading! i don't thread much anymore but you can find me (and my past dbh threads) on twitter at [@boringbibs](https://twitter.com/boringbibs)


End file.
